A £39 gizmo has just saved my mar­riage – and maybe yours too

The Scottish Mail on Sunday - - Comment - Rachel John­son Fol­low Rachel on Twit­ter @RachelSJohn­son

AS THE May wed­ding sea­son gets into full swing, those of us who en­tered the state of holy mat­ri­mony many moons ago will no doubt be tempted to share our top tips when it comes to a last­ing mar­riage. Mine may sur­prise you. Most of us can cope with al­most any­thing so long as we’ve had a good night’s sleep. My hus­band and I have been through most things to keep the plot mov­ing for­ward: chil­dren, rows about whose turn it is to empty the dish­washer, life-threat­en­ing ill­nesses, be­ing sacked (both of us), chil­dren leav­ing home, our dog dy­ing, the works. But the one thing that I can’t cope with is snor­ing. I lie there frozen with fury, then I prod him. ‘Snor­ing!’ I hiss. He wails ‘I’m not even asleep’ or ‘But I’m only breath­ing!’

I’ve been driven to record­ing on my iPhone the win­dowrat­tling honks and bel­lows of my bed­mate after only a few ales with his friend Eddy, for re­play­ing as proof.

So some might say ‘Don’t let the sun go down on your wrath’ or ‘Let most of the lit­tle things go’. Oth­ers will drone on about ‘date nights’ or even make brave stabs at ringfenc­ing win­dows for mar­i­tal re­la­tions in the fam­ily Google Cal­en­dar.

But I say work, rest and play keeps the divorce lawyers at bay, with the em­pha­sis al­ways on rest. I went to a Jewish wed­ding in Glouces­ter­shire last week­end, and the fe­male rabbi duly told B and M all about the bumps on the road ahead. The older and wiser guests ex­changed know­ing glances, for we knew the road ahead was tough. But divorce can be even more hellish, and after pro­longed and de­tailed study of the species, and a quar­ter cen­tury of mar­riage, I have this ad­vice to of­fer in pre­lude to di­vulging my ex­clu­sive tip. Women may be mad­den­ing in their own many and var­ied ways, but all men are equally an­noy­ing in terms of hus­band ma­te­rial. Some are un­tidy cooks, strew wet tow­els and dirty un­der­pants in their wake, never wipe sur­faces, or snore. Some – nam­ing no names – do all of the above. Yet there’s no point in chang­ing horses mid-race, as you will just come un­stuck at Becher’s Brook with an­other one. So you might as well save on time, money, le­gal fees and heart­break and stick with the ride you’ve got. What­ever you do or don’t do (as you can tell, I am in full fe­male rabbi mode now), you have to work to make it work. You have to find hacks to save your mar­riage, and here – ta da! – is my so­lu­tion to the all-too-com­mon prob­lem of men snor­ing even ‘while awake’ and then deny­ing it.

Ac­cord­ing to es­tate agents, the su­per-rich have a way round the en­demic prob­lem of noc­tur­nal dis­rup­tion, that makes one not merely want to divorce but murder your other half. There’s a new trend of carv­ing out ‘an­nexes off the mas­ter suite’ – they’re nick­named snore rooms or quar­rel rooms, and they con­tain an­other bed.

WELL, I’ve tried the poor man’s al­ter­na­tive – de­por­ta­tion to a child’s old bed­room – as well as the shove, but noth­ing has re­ally worked. Un­til, that is, a friend told us about a con­trap­tion she made her hus­band wear nightly: a white rub­bery plas­tic mouth guard that ‘gen­tly holds your jaw in the right po­si­tion’ as you sleep and ‘helps you breathe eas­ily and qui­etly’.

Pop it on and hey presto! As ad­ver­tised, the mid­night sym­phony of a con­gested warthog or a revving Har­ley-David­son does, as if by magic, sub­side. Yes, the Snoreeze saved my mar­riage. And maybe my hus­band’s life too. You can get the de­vices in Boots.

‘It cost £38.95 to sleep with my wife,’ I over­heard my hus­band say the other day. ‘If I want to main­tain my pre­car­i­ous place in the mar­i­tal bed, that’s what it cost me.’ After 25 loooong years of mar­riage, I’d say I was cheap at the price.

THE pound in my pocket is lower be­cause of Brexit and now the price of petrol at the pump is higher be­cause of Trump. Thanks, boys.

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